


Misadventures in Dunwall

by SympatriCuckoo



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Video Game Mechanics, video game lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5789683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SympatriCuckoo/pseuds/SympatriCuckoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hold your sword in your right hand and your gun in your left. You left click to swing your sword and right click to shoot your gun. And people wonder why Coldridge turned into a massacre.</p><p> </p><p>Just a bunch of drabbles based on stuff that happened during my play-throughs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely self-indulgent. May not may not be a series. Will update when and if I feel like it.

“All right, now set him down here. Gently.” Rinaldo gestured to a cleared spot of the warehouse floor.

Jenkins grabbed the unconscious guard he had been reluctantly carting around for some time, and dropped him.

The guard crashed into the chair a few feet behind the targeted area. He slid down, eventually coming to rest in a sprawl, arms and legs akimbo and head lolling backwards. He looked like he'd had a few pints and had gone for a bit of a kip.

“Outsider's eyes! Jenkins, what the fuck?!”

Jenkins shrugged helplessly, not sure what had gone wrong.

The guard started to snore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You try to transverse up onto a ledge, only to jump a few feet into the air and get nowhere. Or perhaps you mistime your blink, hit the side of a lamp-post and fall back to earth. It probably looks hilarious to those watching.

Three new Whaler-trainees were standing on the walkways, joking and rough-housing. Usually they weren't allowed to do so during lessons, where focus and concentration were paramount, but Thomas was well-aware that they'd been looking forward to harnessing their Void powers for some time.

 

The excitement was contagious. Off-duty Whalers were gathered along the rooftops of the surrounding apartments, and even those on guard rotation were sneaking occasional glances.

 

Training shiny new recruits was something Thomas enjoyed, but didn't often get the chance to do. There was something satisfying about teaching: from watching someone mastering a parry or block to learning how to fall correctly. And while he delighted in teaching, this was one set of lessons he especially enjoyed.

 

“Alright, settle down.”

 

The trainees formed a straight-line, hands behind their backs and attention on Thomas.

 

“Today we will be learning transversals.”  
  
The middle trainee made a little squeak of happiness.

 

“A transversal allows you to cover a large distance instantaneously by manipulating time. However,” Thomas cautioned, “you will still physically be covering that area. You will not simply disappear and then reappear where you want. So bear that in mind before you try to transverse through an Arc Pylon.

 

“The key to a successful transversal is concentration and accuracy. You will need to be able to feel the Void energy through your Marks and visualize your destination.”

 

Thomas paused and assessed them. “By now, I hope you've become accustomed to the feeling of the energy in your Marks. You will need to be able to channel it smoothly. It is this that will take concentration. A hiccup in focus could have you plummet to your death.”

 

He let that sink in a bit, scrutinizing them carefully. Some of the manic energy had dimmed, presumably by the possibility of death. “Because of this, I have put flags on the areas that are safe for you to try. If even one of you transverse to an area that hasn't been approved, this lesson will end prematurely and all of you will be assigned to latrine duty. Understood?”

 

The three nodded.

 

“...Alright, have at it.”

 

The three immediately tried to transverse away only fall back down. They tried again to the same result. Rather than try for easier targets, the three continued, trying desperately to transverse onto rooftops or onto chimneys to hilarious results. Two of them managed to transverse onto the same surface, only to bump into each other and topple off. They kept aiming too high or too low or kept forgetting about obstacles in their way, ricocheting off and flopping around like landed hagfish.

 

Hidden under his mask, Thomas cracked a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transversing into the same spot - inspired by puppyblue


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the krusts just won't open, even if you're standing on top of them.
> 
> ...I had a lot of fun with this one. Too much time because of too much snow, most likely.

 

For better or for worse, Central Rudshore was located in the middle of the Flooded District, the largest open-air sewer in Gristol. The smell kept most people out, even Weepers, which made things easier. But otherwise,

 

Pickford was disgusted. “Another day, another cleanup rotation with you.”

 

“Blow off, choffer,” responded Quin, absently.

 

The two made their way through the gate, Void Gaze activated and scanning the walls and ceiling. It was clear at the moment, but the two could hear river krusts snapping in the distance. They made their way cautiously over, following the sounds, and stopped as soon as the krusts showed yellow in their vision, a tunnel wall separating them from the krusts.

 

The two deactivated the Void Gaze and peered around the corner of the wall. There were three kursts growing at the base of the waterway and four bracketing the doorway leading out to the rest of the Flooded District, two on each side. They drew back.

 

Quin furrowed his brow. “This is gonna be tough.”

 

Pickford nodded. “I say we just lob a grenade, take out one or two colonies.”

 

“Daud would have our hide for wasting ammunition like that.”

 

“ _He's_ not the one risking getting his face melted off.”

 

Quin stared at Pickford. “I never realized your face was so hideous that you naturally look like an industrial gas mask.”

 

“Haha. Think you're so funny.”

 

“Look,” Quin refocused, “let's try to take them out with our crossbows. If we can't create a more advantageous formation, then we use the grenades.”

 

“Fair enough,” Pickford acquiesced.

 

“You go out an be the decoy.”

 

“Why do _I_ have to be the decoy?”

 

“Because if the krusts melt _my_ face, I'll be scarred for life. If they melt _your_ face, they'll be doing you a favor.”

 

“YOU-!”

 

“And I came up with the plan.”

 

“THAT'S NOT A GOOD-”

 

“And I'm the better shot.”

 

“...”

 

“Go on,” Quin flapped a hand. “Get!”

 

Pickford rounded the corner, creeping towards the krusts at a snail's pace. “I swear, if I die, I'm going to haunt and mercilessly cock block you.”

 

“Sure, sure. Sounds fair.”

 

The first group of krusts started shivering as Pickford drew closer. And closer. And closer.

 

They opened suddenly with a growl.

 

Quin took two out in quick succession before they even had time to spew acid. But his aim of the third was blocked by a metal pipe.

 

“NOPE NOPE NOPE SHIT SHITSHITSHIT...!” Acid splattered and hissed against the stone and Quin hurried to ready his shot, cursing. He rounded the corner, not even bothering to lean, and took aim.

 

SPLAT . The river krust toppled over, dead. An unused grenade rolled away from the mollusk and came to a stop at Pickford's feet. He bent down nonchalantly and recovered it.

 

Quin could only stare at him incredulously.

 

“Your plan, oh handsome one?” Pickford snarked.

 

“Right. Right.” Quin turned and surveyed the remaining krusts. So far, none of them had opened, so they were safe here.

 

“Decoy again and I'll snipe?” Quin offered.

 

“Tch, like that worked so well before. You almost got me killed!”

 

“Not my fault there was a pipe in the way.”

 

“Look, how's this: I take the ones on the left. You take the ones on the right. Sound fair?”  
  


Quin shrugs. “Sure.”

 

The two crept over towards their respective colonies, senses alert for even the slightest movement from the krusts. Two pneumatic hisses later, and the left side of the doorway was cleared. Pickford looked over to see Quin's progress.

 

One krust was dead, shell open in the water. Quin was inspecting the last krust.

 

“What are you doing?!” Pickford yelled.

 

“It doesn't seem to respond to any of my movements.”

 

Quin and Pickford stared at the last krust, which sat complacently in front of Quin an arm's length away.

 

“Maybe it's dead?” Pickford asked, hopefully.

 

“Hmm.” Quin drew his sword and, ignoring Pickford's increasingly hysterical screams, whacked the krust with it. The krust yelped and flinched down, folding in on itself, tightly.

 

“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?!”

 

Quin sheathed his sword. “Nope. Not dead.”

 

“WASN'T THERE SOME OTHER WAY TO CHECK IF IT'S ALIVE?!”

 

Quin shrugged again.

 

They stared at the krust some more.

 

“Maybe it's a...friendly...? krust?” Pickford suggested, tentatively.

 

“Friendly,” deadpanned Quin.

 

“You know, like in the stories.” When Quin didn't respond, Pickford began elaborating, walking over. “For example, a deity or spirit takes on the appearance of something grotesque to see who will be kind to it and whoever is kind gets three wishes.”

 

The krust started moving a little.

 

“Pickford. No.”

 

“Or maybe it's a witch who was cursed to be stuck in this form and whoever frees her gets her eternal gratitude!”

 

The krust let out a low chatter.

 

“Wait. Shut up!”

 

“Or maybe it's the Outsider himself! And whoever kisses him gets his Mark!”

 

“PICKFORD, STOP MOVING!”

 

The krust opened with screeching gurgle and Pickford froze in surprise and fright. Quin shot a bolt in pointblank range and the krust fell over, a little spray of acid spritzing up from the crossbow's force.

 

“You were saying?” Quin asked, sardonically.

 

“...I was saying I'm full of shit,” Pickford said, relief evident in his voice. He sagged slightly.

 

Quin nodded, taking it as the thanks that it was meant to be. “Indeed, I believe so.”


	4. Chapter 4

The first time it happened, Fergus was in desperate need of a toilet. He transversed to the ruined bathroom at the top of the walkway and sat down with a sigh. He had thought those Tyvian pears looked a little rotten.

 

His diarrhea was quickly rendered a non-problem when he suddenly fell through the toilet, through the walkways and into the water. He looked up.

 

Buildings the Chamber of Commerce floated in the distance and Fergus was disconcerted when he realized that he could see little people walking around inside.

 

He tried desperately to transverse to a lamp-post, a building, a railing, anything, only to realize that his powers weren't working and instead he was being sucked downwards, into a watery void where the water rushed up while he was being dragged to some giant invisible drain at the bottom and he couldn't breath and...

 

he was dropped unceremoniously back onto the toilet.

 

No one believed what he told them. Instead, Fergus was made to clean up all of the saltwater he'd vomited.

 

The second time was also unexpected, but at least there were witnesses.

 

It was a weekly assignment. One or two groups of Whalers, fireteams consisting of a senior Whaler and one or two authorized novices, would hide caches of supplies around Dunwall in anticipation of a potential future hit and to provide further training for the novices.

 

One such fireteam, consisting of senior Whaler Scott and novices Walter and Bertram, was on their way to the Legal District to prepare for a possible hit on Timsch.

 

Scott scouted ahead, looking for cleared paths through guard patrols and around Sokolov technology, then beckoning Walter and Betram when all was clear urging them to more or less follow in his wake.

 

The three passed from behind a stack of crates, transversing to the top of a guard booth and then to the top of a gate under which was a Wall of Light. Guards meandered about, obliviously.

 

From their perch, Scott could see that the rest of the street showed obvious signs of quarantine, although the houses seemed in good repair. There weren't as many corpses piled up either. He turned to the novices.

 

“We're near Treaver's Close,” Scott stated. “Do either of you remember why we're avoiding that section?”

 

“There have been reports of violent gang activity-skirmishes with the City Watch,” said Walter.

 

“Which gang?” Scott quizzed.

 

“...the Hatters?” Bertram offered.

 

“Are you sure?” Scott asked.

 

“...yes...?” Bertram looked over at Walter for help.

 

Walter stared impassively back.

 

Scott sighed. “It is the Hatters. But you need to know this stuff. I mean, there are only three gangs currently operating in Dunwall.”

 

Walter nodded his understanding. Bertram shuffled a little, self-consciously.

 

Satisfied that they at least knew something of the area, Scott turned to survey the street again. There weren't that many features that could be used for transversals. They could go straight up the street, but most of the roofs were steep and there was only a streetlight and a sign; it would get them halfway up the street and no more.

 

There were more alternate paths if they cut near Treaver's Close, but that would take them into gang territory and, while they were geared for combat, Scott doubted that the novices were ready for actual fights.

 

Mind made up, Scott turned to Walter and Bertram. “I am going to test possible routes. Do not follow me until I return and outline the path we shall take. Is that understood?”

 

Walter nodded once and grunted. Bertram saluted, “Yes, sir!”

 

Scott eyeballed Bertram, disconcerted. He was sure Bertram was beaming under his mask; the kid seemed just way too naïve and it was giving him the creeps.

 

With a shake of his head, Scott walked off the edge of the gate and quickly transversed to the streetlight. He jumped forward, preparing to transverse onto the billboard when the sounds of shouting and pistols firing startled him. He plummeted to the ground and braced for impact.

 

He hit the water with a splash and spluttered as water filled his mask and lungs. He swam upwards, desperately wondering if the lack of air was causing him to hallucinate being able to see through the ground into buildings and look up at guards standing over him and walking around like he wasn't drowning in water and being able to see the outlines of the streets, even though the cobblestones had seemingly been replaced with water when no one was looking.

 

He broke the surface of the water and managed a few gasps before he was dragged back under. Scott clawed his way back up, panicking. He stole another few breaths before he was yanked under again.

 

Trying to swim back to the surface, Scott risked a look down and was horrified.

 

Somehow, there were streams of water being exuded from pipes that were _flowing up_ without any consideration of the laws of nature. Streams of water that somehow _managed to stay separate_ from the rest of the water surrounding said pipes and said streams.

 

And as far as the eye could see, as far down as he could fathom, was a vast blue expanse of water with no bottom in sight.

 

Scott closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. At least this supernatural fuckery topped the cool deaths list.

 

He was spat out with a wet plop back on the gate roof between an unnerved Walter and a hyperventilating Bertram. They didn't move for a while.

 

When they finally returned to base, utterly traumatized and demoralized, they reported to an incredulous Daud and then apologized profusely to Fergus.

 

The third time it happened, no Whalers fell victim.

 

Daud didn't like the Brigmore estate. There were too many trees disrupting his sight lines, and no one seemed to care that krusts were slowly colonizing the place.

 

He transversed from a balcony onto a rooftop patio. Two witches stood near each other, having a conversation about...necrophilia. Lovely.

 

He bent time, fired a sleep dart and transversed behind the other one, choking her out. He heaved her over his shoulder and set about finding a place to hide the bodies. One would think that rooftops would be safe from patrols, but Daud wasn't taking any chances with these adversaries.

 

He deposited her in a ruined attic room and, to his astonishment, she fell through the floor. He approached the area gingerly, wondering if the floor was rotten and she'd fallen through. But the timber was still sturdy enough to take his weight and there was no conveniently human-sized hole to explain the disappearance.

 

Out of equal parts curiosity and concern, he activated his Void Gaze.

 

Nothing. No yellow indicating a body. No blue to show a trap door. No green to show magic. Just a blue-shaded floor.

 

Daud turned and went back outside to the patio. There was only one body. He picked her up and arranged her as best he could into a chair. Hopefully anyone checking up on this area would just assume she'd fallen asleep; sure it'd never happened before in his experience, guards being overly paranoid, but there had been weirder occurrences.

 

Such as people falling through solid objects.

 

Like the earth.

 

Into a watery ~~void~~ hell.

 

Daud carefully skirted around the word 'void' and went back inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The glitch I describe is real. In the second part with Scott, that's what happened to Daud during one of my playthroughs, complete with little streams of water rising from broken pipes and falling into a bottomless ocean. Daud's head was above water when that shot was taken, but if you dip look down (and move down) then the blue oxygen bar is activated and you can see and hear the character swimming. Suiciding is the only way to escape the glitch, so I made up the part about being pulled down in order to explain the characters being able to return (presumably to the last save point). 
> 
> The first bit with Fergus I made up. There was a reason for that, but I can't remember why.  
> The last one always happens when I drop a body there. I don't know if that glitch is connected to the other glitch, but they both involve characters falling through the map, so I like to think so!
> 
> Maybe it's the Outsider pulling people into his realm (which exists underneath Dunwall/the regular map).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wondered if there were survivors who starved to death after being confined (bricked up) to their house. And then I wondered about the food that we find around the game.

_Survivor's Journal:_

 

There's an incredible amount of food lying around for a quarantined city subject to rationing and facing starvation. Some of it's found in areas that're expected – shops like Griff's had stuff and you can forage in the gang territories if you're strong, or fast, or smart, or stupid enough.

 

The rich have the best food overall, in both quality and quantity. Some of the food from the Boyle party had to have been smuggled in: no way could Tyvian pears, Morley apples and Serkonan blood sausages stay that well since the start of quarantine. And I heard that there were enough of these delicacies there that a family of four could live real high on the horse for a while.

 

And then there's the creative fare. Rothwild and Ramsey cut costs by feeding their workers whale meat, and tins of the stuff can be found everywhere in Dunwall. People willing to risk a few bites can go hagfish fishing, dip in a toe or a finger, if they can't get the brined fish. Or they can go for the eggs in the shallows.

 

And of course, there's the rats. Everywhere. Rats onna stick for those who're really desperate or really fearless. Or really hungry.

 

Or already have the plague.

 

I still have a slice of bread and some whale meat left. Then I'll find what else I can find in my apartment. Think I might rather starve afore eating the rats, though.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rats on a stick are a shout-out to Discworld. 
> 
> You can't eat live hagfish in game, but I imagine one could theoretically catch and cook one.
> 
> Always wondered if eating rat kebabs made one more likely to catch the plague. Some bacteria/viruses can survive at extreme temperatures, so it's possible.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a busy month and a really shitty day. Weird dishonored hijinks is obviously the cure.
> 
> Literally wrote this during my shift, so weird narrative shifts ahoy!
> 
> Warning: gratuitous discword reference; treating sick people like monsters/something non-human ~~because there's nothing like going into a health profession only to realize that some clinicians treat patients like subhuman freaks~~

Seeing interactions between weepers and guards always disturbed Corvo. On the one hand, the weepers were harming the guards. On the other hand, most times weepers never meant to harm anyone, or so ~~Jess~~ the Heart claimed. On the other other hand, Corvo wasn't so morally bankrupt that he'd let the guards slaughter sick people.

 

It was part of the reason why Corvo ran out of sleep darts on some missions, unwilling to allow the combatants to duke it out. After debriefing on those missions, Havelock was always frustrated with him for wasting good ammo. Corvo would always imagine Jessamine's face if she'd heard that and would have to bite his tongue to keep his composure.

 

He likes to think he's keeping her memory alive in the small ways that matter.

 

* * *

 

 

It was the darndest thing Jim'd ever seen, and he'd been in the guard for years! He stared over at the fracas (possibly even a rumpus) near the Golden Cat, arm still poised halfway to pull the alarm.

 

Weepers were attacking the guards.

 

This in and of itself wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Rather like the rat swarms, weepers seemed to pop up unexpectedly and create hell. Unlike the rats, weepers were usually fairly easy to put down. A couple of sword swings here, some bullets there, maybe some pushing and shoving for good measure. No one died. Except the weepers of course, but they weren't really human anymore anyway, were they. Certainly not people.

 

A plague-ridden woman fell to the ground, sword impaled through her stomach. Watch Officer Watson freed his sword and stepped back to ready his gun.

 

The woman stood up, seemingly undeterred by the assault and moving as though she hadn't been grievously stabbed. Through the haze of bugs, she didn't appear to have taken any damage.

 

Afraid, Jim felt himself break into a cold sweat: was the plague really Outsider sent? And did this mean that the weepers were now...IMMORTAL?!

 

“What the hell are you doing? Sound the alarm!” Watson shouted. He aimed and missed, the shot going wide as he was assaulted by flying, biting insects.

 

“Sir!”

 

Jim turned only to receive a sleep dart to the face.

 

* * *

 

One bend time and five sleep darts later, weepers were secreted into alleys and guards deposited on rooftops. Corvo surveyed his handiwork with all the peace of mind of a mother hen knowing her chicks were safe and not likely to be attacked by random rats and/or gang members.

 

Now, he had a brothel to visit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has weeper invincibility happened to anyone else? It happened on my first play through. Actually thought that it was a legit game mechanic XD


End file.
